Going Under
by Brambleshadow96
Summary: "Now I will tell you what I've done for you. Fifty thousand tears I've cried. Screaming, deceiving, and bleeding for you and you still won't hear me. Don't want your hand this time; I'll save myself. Maybe I'll wake up for once. Not tormented daily, defeated by you. Just when I thought I'd reached the bottom I'm dying again. I'm going under. . . ." [Dark Doctor series]
1. Lipstick Lies

**Notes: **Inspired by Pat Benatar's "Lipstick Lies." I also may or may not have nicked a line from Disney's _Frozen._

This series has Martha traveling with a darker version of the Tenth Doctor than portrayed in the show and in their New Series Adventures novels. As such, there are trigger warnings throughout.

**Warnings: **Dark Doctor (obviously), mind rape, toxic/abusive relationship. Don't like, don't read.

* * *

**Part One**

**"Lipstick Lies"**

* * *

_You gotta admit,  
__You paint a pretty picture.  
__No one would ever suspect  
__You're so adept at the arts.  
__I hear the lonely lovers say  
__You hide behind cosmetic eyes.  
__Kiss 'em off with lipstick lies._

_Lipstick lies won't hide the truth,  
__And they won't keep you waterproof.  
__The victim of your vanity. . . ._

"Doctor?"

At the sound of Martha Jones's voice, the Time Lord lifted his head from under the console. "Yeah, Martha? What is it?"

"I was just . . ." She faltered, her voice trailing off as she stared at him. After this stretched on for over a minute, he raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Well?" He couldn't hold back the irritated edge. Was this body really that attractive to human women? Judging by the way Martha and Rose acted around him, the answer was yes.

"How much longer are you gonna be with fixing that?"

"I'm almost done." His eyes narrowed behind his glasses in suspicion. "Why do you want to know? And don't say it's because you want to talk." The Doctor rose slowly to his feet, crossed his arms as he glared at her. He may act like he didn't notice her sexual advances, her subtle attempts at flirting, but he did notice—and he knew what her reaction would be whenever he mentioned Rose, so he did it often. The Doctor didn't care about Martha in the way he had his former companion, but that didn't seem to deter the medical student.

Martha just gave him a stern, almost patronizing look, and he breathed a sigh through his nose. "All right, what is it?" He whipped the glasses off his nose and stuck them in the pocket of his blue suit jacket.

"I'm worried about you," Martha said bluntly, getting right to the point. "Your behavior with the Daleks—it was like you _wanted_ them to kill you. Did you think about how I would get back to my own time if something happened to you—if you _died_?"

No, he hadn't, and more to the point, he didn't care. The Doctor shrugged, face carefully expressionless. "The TARDIS would have helped you or I would have activated an emergency program. I've done it before."

"With Rose?"

He nodded shortly. "What's it matter to you what I did with her? Jealous, are we, Martha? Hhhm?"

Her dark skin flushed, and she averted her eyes. "No."

He knew as well as she did that she was lying, but he decided to let it go—for now. "Surely what happened in Manhattan isn't the only reason, Martha Jones."

Her expression told him she was fighting to remain composed. At last Martha quickly shook her head. She didn't say anything more, which he was willing to let go. For now. Again.

Still, the Doctor couldn't help wondering if she was beginning to suspect the real reason he would put her in danger, would always leave her to fend for herself. Yes, he'd made her an official companion, had been grateful for her restoring his Time Lord self to his body, but the only reason he'd gone after her on New Earth was to tell her the truth about his planet and not out of genuine concern. When he'd been possessed by the living sun, the first person on the ship he'd wanted to kill had been Martha. Even before then, when he'd watched her escape pod detaching from the ship and floating toward the sun, and he'd promised to save her, a large part of him had wanted to let her and Riley burn to death.

But he couldn't do that, oh no, not the _Doctor_, the man who wanted to make people (and the universe) better.

If Martha hadn't cottoned on by now, he doubted she ever would. Then again, why should she be suspicious of him? He'd painted such a pretty picture of himself in her eyes, had played upon her obvious attraction to him. No, Martha would never suspect his ulterior motives, not with him being so adept at the art of manipulation.

"Were you going to take me anywhere?" Martha's voice broke into his musings.

"Um, yeah. Any particular destination in mind?"

The last stern traces left her to be replaced by a small, flirtatious smile. "You're the Time Lord. You tell me."

He smirked after a moment's thought. Oh, yes, he knew just the place to take her.

_"Allons-y!"_

He pulled the lever, and they flew through the Vortex.

_You're the Picasso of pain,  
__A fantasy in flesh tone.  
__And though you're never the same,  
__You're never far from the mark.  
__Now and then you close your eyes  
__To see the heartbreak in disguise.  
__Kiss it off with lipstick lies. . . ._

Martha half-stumbled half-ran through the dark cobblestone streets after the Doctor, her lungs and leg muscles protesting with each breath, each step. Ignoring the pain, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep moving, to run faster. She could hold out until they reached the TARDIS: She had to.

Martha had dealt with witches, a sentient sun, Zygons, Daleks with pig-slaves, and a giant scorpion-like creature that was embedded deep within human DNA. But somehow the Doctor had landed them on a planet populated with vampires. _Vampires!_

Okay, yes, there had been Ms. Finnegan the Plasmavore who killed Mr. Stoker by sucking his blood through a straw, but she wasn't really a vampire.

The Doctor turned a corner, and Martha almost laughed aloud in a mixture of hysteria and relief as the sturdy blue shape of the TARDIS came into view.

An enraged snarl came from behind her, but Martha didn't dare look back. It would slow her down, and she couldn't afford that—not now.

She stumbled into the TARDIS after the Doctor, tripped over her feet and landed heavily on the metal ramp. Martha crawled swiftly up to the grated floor, used the console to push herself into a standing position. She glanced back at the doors, saw they were closed, and her aching body slumped in relief.

Then anger set in, and she turned to the Doctor. Martha shouted, "Why the hell did you take us there?!"

The Doctor didn't look at her, didn't answer her. He trailed one hand over the console as he walked around it, hit buttons and switches and levers with the other.

"Doctor?" Martha tried again, softening her tone.

He still wasn't looking at her, and that worried her. Surely he hadn't intended to take her to that planet? No, definitely not. The TARDIS must have taken control again. Yes, that had to be it.

So why was he taking so long to answer her?

Suddenly his head snapped up from the console, his dark eyes fixed on her as he started the dematerialization process. Martha instinctively took a step back, her breath catching in her throat. He was so beautiful when he looked like this: tall, dark, barely controlled. Burning eyes that pierced your soul, combined with pale and freckled skin . . . he seemed more like an deadly angel than a Time Lord at times—the lonely angel of death.

"Did they scratch you?"

His question caught her off guard. Martha blinked. "What?"

"I said, 'Did they scratch you?'"

"I—I don't think so."

"Mmm." The Doctor moved around the console, started to walk toward her. "Better check to be sure." Was she imagining it, or was there something . . . predatory about his movements?

She had to be imagining it. As much as she wanted him, there was no way on Earth or any other planet that he would give himself to her. She'd never be able to compare to his old companion, Rose Tyler. He'd made it clear on that.

But the way he was acting, looking at her as if she was his prey . . . Nervous butterflies fluttered in Martha's stomach.

His hand was on the small of her back now as he guided her through the labyrinth of corridors, finally ending up in what she assumed was medbay—sickbay, whatever you wanted to call it. The medical student in her was drinking everything in, noting the differences and relaxing at instruments she recognized, as well as wondering what everything was for and how it was used.

The Doctor had Martha sit on what looked like an examination table, then busied himself with checking her over, muttering to himself the whole while.

"Well?" Martha asked when he paused for at least three seconds. "What's your prognosis?"

He looked up at her, the sorrowful look in his brown eyes telling her all she needed to know.

"How bad is it?"

Silence. He turned away from her, began preparing a syringe. After filling it to ten ccs with a dark red liquid, he inspected the needle and turned to face her.

Martha couldn't stop herself from shrinking back. Despite the fact she was a medical student she hated receiving shots. "Doctor, what is that? What's in it?" Why wouldn't he answer her? Why was he being so silent? Normally she couldn't shut him up to save his life.

"It'll help," he said, advancing toward her slowly. He must have seen a dubious expression on her face, because he added soothingly, "Trust me. I'm a Doctor."

Suddenly Martha didn't want to let him or that needle anywhere near her, but if it would help . . . So she swallowed hard, turned her head away as the needle pricked her skin and that dark syrupy liquid (that looked suspiciously like blood) flowed into her body.

The Doctor's arms were around her, helping her to her feet. "Here, let me help." Since Martha didn't feel like protesting, she allowed him to lead her yet again down the corridors of his ship.

If her head had been clearer, she might have wondered why they were going in the opposite direction of her room. Even with a fuzzy head, Martha began to realize something was wrong.

"Doctor, where are you—?" She couldn't finish the sentence. Her tongue suddenly felt thick and heavy, and her vision was starting to blur. Martha blinked, trying to clear her eyesight, but the blurriness remained. It took effort to even turn her head, but she managed it. "You—you—," she started accusingly. Then she stumbled as the drug took full effect, and she blacked out.

~oOo~

When Martha came to, she was lying on a bed in a room she didn't recognize. A quick patdown revealed she was still clothed, and she didn't know whether to be grateful or disappointed.

"Oh, good. You're awake," the familiar voice said from her right.

Martha's head snapped in that direction and saw the Doctor standing in the shadows. She scrambled back on the bed, away from him. "Don't touch me!"

He smirked. "Bit late for that, isn't it?" He stepped forward, out of the shadows, and Martha shuddered at the cold look in his eyes. "Don't act like you don't want me to, Martha. I've seen the way you look at me, and I'd hate to tell you this but _that_ is never gonna happen."

"Because I'm not _her_, is that right?" Martha flung at him.

"No, you're not. I told you when you first came on board that you weren't replacing her, but that didn't seem to stop you, did it?"

"_You're_ the one who kissed_ me_!"

"_That_ was a genetic transfer and the only way to save lives!"

"And how many times did you kiss _her_?"

His eyes gleamed. "I was right earlier: You are jealous, Martha. And of someone you've never even met. Humans. You're so emotional, so territorial. How you lot ever reach space is beyond me."

She ignored the insult aimed at her species. "That's not an answer."

His expression now was absolutely wicked. "More times than I have you—and not all of them were on her mouth."

Martha shook her head, as if that would dislodge his words from her brain. It just caused the room to spin so she stopped, feeling dizzy.

Then she remembered: "You drugged me!"

The way he tilted his head reminded her of an inquisitive bird. "Did I? Yes, I suppose I did. It's not like you were complaining, in any event."

"What was in it?"

He scoffed. "You wouldn't recognize it even if I told you, so why bother? But that's not what's bugging you, isn't it?" The Doctor moved to the edge of the bed, brought his face close to hers. "She saw more of me than you ever will, and doesn't that just _hurt_?"

Martha didn't know whether to slap him or kiss him. So she did neither and turned her head away.

Then cold hands grabbed her wrists, yanked her off the bed, and slammed her hard against the nearest wall. Martha gasped with pain, forced blurred eyes open. Those brown eyes boring into her seemed almost black, were completely foreign and alien to her. His grip on her wrists didn't loosen, and he was crowding her.

"Doctor, stop it! You're hurting me!"

White teeth flashed in a feral, dangerous grin. "Am I? Good. Besides, you won't remember any of this."

Fear turned her veins to ice, but her skin was nowhere near as cold as that of the Time Lord pinning her to the wall. "What is it with you?" Martha swallowed, hated that she couldn't stop her voice from shaking as she added, "You're scaring me."

There was nothing warm about his demeanor now, and Latimer's description of the Doctor replayed in her mind with sudden clarity: _He's like fire and ice and rage. He's like the night and the storm in the heart of the sun. He's ancient and forever. He burns at the center of time and can see the turn of the universe._ She mentally added, _And he's terrifying._ Martha had seen flashes of this side to him before; but they were brief, quickly buried away, and never directed at her. Now that it was, she wanted to run and hide from the storm brewing and raging inside him—except he probably wouldn't let her do that, not unless it was on his orders.

Her breath drew in as a rattling hiss as the Doctor bent his head. She tensed, tremors running through her, swallowed hard as she heard him inhale—no, that was wrong: he was taking in her scent. Then cool lips brushed the skin of her throat, lingered there for a few seconds before withdrawing. Martha's heart sped up, blood roared in her ears—and then came crashing down.

All of their kisses were lies. He was using her—no more, no less. She thought,_ Kiss it off with lipstick lies. . . ._

Martha closed her eyes, felt the Doctor release her. She slumped against the wall, then let gravity slide her down it until she was sitting. Even with closed eyes she sensed movement as he crouched down in front of her. Her eyelids fluttered and she opened them to the tiniest slit—just enough to see him, his face wearing a smirk that made him unrecognizable to her.

"Oh, Martha," he crooned, sounding almost Scottish. "Poor Martha; lonely Martha; brilliant, heartbroken Martha." He reached out, cupped her chin, and sighed. "If only there was someone out there who loved you."

She wanted to slap him for that. Clearly, his one-time meeting with her mother hadn't left much of an impression. Besides, all she had to do was turn her head a little, and—

No. He'd kick her out of the TARDIS. Despite the way he was currently treating her, she didn't want to go back to her old life—not yet, at least. Martha loved him too much for that.

Her eyes opened fully, glared at him. That angry look clearly said, _You take that back!_

"Relax," the Doctor said quietly, voice oddly soothing. His hands drifted up the side of her head toward her temples. Martha flashed back to the asylum and the mind-meld (there was no other word for it) he'd done on the insane architect, knew what he was going to do . . . and found herself unable to resist.

He was so, so beautiful when he was dangerous like this . . .

Then her vision went dark, and she knew nothing more.

~oOo~

Once the Doctor was sure Martha was unconscious and he'd safely buried her memory of this little incident, he picked her up in both arms and carried her into her room. He set her down on her bed, turned and walked away with a small smile on his lips.

No, she would never suspect. Even if her subconscious picked up on little quirks, there was no way she'd be able to connect them, not with her buried and altered memories.

"Look at that," the Doctor murmured as he shut the door to Martha's room and started sauntering down the hallway. "I win."

_Lipstick lies won't hide the truth  
__And they won't keep you waterproof.  
__The victim of your vanity,  
__You see just what you want to see.  
__Who's to blame?  
__Love is love by any name.  
__Who's to blame?_


	2. Tear It Apart

**Notes: **Inspired by Pat Benatar's "Fire and Ice." This started out as a character study, but then it turned into something else. Whoops. Oh, and a few scenes were inspired by Evanescence's "Snow White Queen."

This series has Martha traveling with a darker version of the Tenth Doctor than portrayed in the show and in their New Series Adventures novels. As such, there are trigger warnings throughout.

**Warnings: **Dark Doctor (obviously), mind rape, toxic/abusive relationship, non-consensual sexual situation. Don't like, don't read.

* * *

**Part Two**

**"Tear It Apart"**

* * *

_Ooo, you're giving me the fever tonight.  
__I don't wanna give in. I'd be playin' with fire . . ._

Martha Jones, stretched out on the jump seat in the TARDIS, studied the lean dark figure of the Doctor through half-closed eyes. His long brown coat was draped over one of the coral struts and the man— Time Lord—himself was perched on another with one leg drawn up to his chest and the other dangling over the edge. The green light from the time rotor cast half of his angular face and body into shadow, left the rest of him bathed in murky light. His hands, with those long, slender fingers, were draped and crossed over one knee, fingers occasionally intertwining or picking absent-mindedly at the leg of his blue trousers. Martha was fascinated by those hands, that lean body; would imagine his fingers lightly dancing over her skin while his mouth and the rest of him were otherwise occupied.

Heat flooded her cheeks now as the Doctor turned his head, his eyes meeting hers, and his mouth curved in a slow smile. Could he tell what she was thinking? Mortified, Martha quickly glanced away. No matter what her fantasies were; never mind how she felt about the Doctor, she wouldn't give in. If she did, she'd be playing with fire. Besides, the Doctor had made it perfectly clear that he didn't want her, not in that way. His precious, _perfect Rose_ was the exception, not the rule.

Surely he had to know what he did to her with every look, every touch, every word. How could he not?

_You forget I've seen you work before.  
__Take 'em straight to the top.  
__Leave 'em cryin' for more.  
__I've seen you burn 'em before. . . ._

But then, he'd told her about Reinette, also known as Madame de Pompadour and whose real name was Jeanne-Antionette Poisson . . . and what that lapse in judgment had almost cost him, despite the fact he'd done nothing with Reinette and he had never returned the French woman's feelings. Even so, he'd wanted to take her on one trip to show her the stars, had told her to pack a bag and he'd come back for her.

She'd died waiting for him to return.

Then there was that matron, Nurse Joan Redfern. She'd fallen in love with the Doctor when he'd turned himself human, and his human self had fallen for her as well. John Smith's anguished words and expression came back to Martha now: _"Falling in love? That didn't even occur to him?!"_

No, it hadn't, Martha thought bitterly, because the Time Lord was still in love with and pining after Rose.

The point was, the Doctor had left both Reinette and Joan crying, longing for more; had given both of them more than he'd ever given her—and . . . he'd left them burned.

_Lady killer,_ Martha thought, shifting her position until she was lying on her side, her legs curled up in a manner similar to the fetal position. She wanted to give him everything, but he'd just take her heart and tear it apart, would whisper promises in the dark.

_Fire and ice._  
_You come on like a flame,_  
_Then you turn a cold shoulder._  
_Fire and ice._  
_I wanna give you my love,_  
_But you'll just take a little piece of my heart._  
_You'll just tear it apart._

The Doctor's smile faded but his eyes never left Martha's form, now curled up in a ball. A blush was harder to detect on her, but he'd noticed, just as he'd taken note of the fact she glanced away as soon as she saw him watching her. As if he couldn't begin to guess: this tenth body was incredibly good-looking—sexy, even—if he did say so himself, and it wasn't as if she'd ever flirted with him or made advances towards him. Each time she did, he would either turn a cold shoulder or mention Rose.

At least it seemed like Martha didn't remember their exchange after he'd taken her to that vampire planet. He'd heard rumors about it, and since the Great Vampires and their descendants were ancient Time Lord enemies and the Doctor was the last of his kind, why not check it out? It was a little disappointing that Martha hadn't been turned. Now he'd have no excuse to— No matter. There were other, easier ways where his hand wouldn't be detected.

He smirked as another thought occurred to him. Of course. He'd drugged her before; why not do it again?

Sometimes, humans were so easy to manipulate. Martha was even more so.

(Rose would never let him get away with this; but then again, Martha wasn't Rose. Martha never could be, and he would give anything for his pink-and-yellow girl—his Bad Wolf, his fantastic Rose Tyler, his lover—to be here with him right now.)

(If he had to, he would break the Laws of Time to have her back, consequences be damned. And there was nothing Martha could do about it.)

His current companion stirred, then sat up and swung her legs over the jump seat. She stood and walked out of the console room. Glancing back over her shoulder, she said, "I'll be in the library."

_Perfect,_ he thought, and his smirk widened.

_Moving in for the kill tonight._  
_You've got every advantage when they put out the lights. . . ._

Martha glanced up from her book sometimes later at a knock at the door to see the Doctor standing there with two mugs of tea in his hands. He said, "I thought you might like a cuppa. Mind if I come in?"

"Um, no. It's your library. And thanks." She accepted the mug he offered her, took a sip, and then set it down and went back to reading.

Martha looked up again after a few seconds when she felt the fine hairs on the back of her arms prickle, saw that he was watching her with a strange look in his eyes, his expression an unreadable mask. "What?" she asked.

"Drink it all," he advised. "That's recommended. Doctor's orders."

"Why?"

"You're going to need your strength," he replied cryptically. The Doctor moved away to browse among the shelves, left his untouched mug on the little stand in front of her.

Martha eyed her own drink warily for a moment, then picked it up and wafed the hot steam toward her. She didn't smell anything abnormal—no nutty scent—so she shrugged and took another sip.

It didn't take long for her to drain the entire cup.

Everything went just a little bit hazy after that.

~oOo~

Her eyes slowly fluttered open to find she was being dragged—or maybe carried?—down a darkened corridor. She turned her head, saw that the Doctor was fully supporting her weight with her arms around his shoulders, one of his hands at her waist.

"Wha—? What're you doing?" The words came out slurred. She should be alarmed about that, she knew dimly, but she couldn't bring herself to feel much of anything.

"Taking you to bed." Was she imagining it, or was there a dark promise in his voice" No, there couldn't be. He'd made it very clear that he didn't think of her in that way.

_"Don't act like you don't want me to, Martha. I've seen the way you look at me, and I hate to tell you this, but_ that _is never gonna happen."_

_"Because I'm not_ her_, is that right?"_

_. . . "She saw more of me than you ever will, and doesn't that just_ hurt_?"_

Strange. Where had that come from? She didn't remember having that conversation with him, didn't remember saying those words. . . .

Wait . . . This wasn't her room. Her room was nowhere near this part of the TARDIS. Where was he—?

The door slid open; the Doctor half-dragged, half-carried her inside the dark room, laid her down on the bed. Then his cool, slender hands were dancing over her body, slipping under her halter top, and his lips were at her throat.

"Tell me to stop. Martha, tell me to stop." The words sounded to her like they were coming through fog.

And she couldn't answer. No sound would come out. So she shook her head, but she wasn't sure what exactly she was saying no to.

She'd wanted him for so long, and yet . . . And yet, something was off.

If only she could think clearly. Why couldn't she think clearly?

His fingers found her bra, unclasped it, grazed over the newly-revealed mounds of flesh. Martha gasped, heard his low, dark chuckle.

A tiny worm of fear wriggled deep inside her. She should be pushing him away, should be screaming . . . but she was powerless to do anything except give in to his caresses. She couldn't scream.

_I can't scream . . .!_

His teeth nipped at her clavicle, and then his mouth moved up to her ear. "This is what you want, isn't it?" he growled.

Yes, but not like this . . . Never like this.

She couldn't move, couldn't think. His hands roamed over her upper body, his fingertips digging into her flesh.

There would be bruises in the morning.

She found she didn't care, especially not when her body was begging for more. And his mouth, his tongue, his fingers . . . Her already fuzzy mind went blank, then crowded over with sensations.

One more touch, one final nudge, and she went over the edge screaming. Martha lay there beneath him panting, trembling, wanting him again—wanting him inside her this time.

He flashed her a smirk, his brown eyes black, and brought his hand up to her face.

When she next woke, he was gone and she was in her own bed.

_It's not so pretty when it fades away,  
__Coz it's just an illusion in this passion play.  
__I've seen you burn 'em before. . . ._

"Martha?"

She scurried into a sitting position at the sound of the Doctor's voice, pulled the sheets up to cover her chest. He was standing in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"Just thought I'd check in on you. You sleep okay?"

"I guess so." Martha frowned slightly. "How did I—?"

"Get here?" At her brisk nod, the Doctor said, "You fell asleep in the library—that cuppa must've been stronger than I thought—so I brought you in here and left."

That made sense, she supposed. So then why was it she could feel his fingers ghosting over her skin whenever she looked at him; had hazy, disjointed images of a dark hallway and him lying her down on a bed that was clearly not her own? No, it had to have been a dream because there was no way that would have happened in real life.

Disappointment flooded her at the thought it had all been an illusion. But then, what else would it be?

"All right then," the Doctor was saying—he'd kept talking, she only just realized—had she been nodding in agreement or something?—"c'mon. I've got something to show you." WIthout waiting for her, he turned on his heel and strode out of her room down the corridor.

He'd been like that ever since she'd met him: he'd talk to her at a hundred miles an hour about something that excited him or give her looks that sent her pulse racing . . . and then he'd turn away or shut her out in some other way. then there were the times he'd look at her only he wasn't seeing Martha Jones: He was remembering Rose Tyler.

Martha was just a rebound and she knew it, whether or not the Doctor did. If she got too close, she'd end up like Reinette or Joan. The thought wasn't appealing at all, but she couldn't help how she felt about him.

She shook off her thoughts and followed him.

"Where're you taking me this time?" Martha asked.

"You'll see." She could hear the smile in his voice.

For some reason, dread shivered up her spine.

~oOo~

The TARDIS landed with a thump, and the Doctor and Martha stepped out into a cold, barren landscape. Martha shivered, wrapped her arms around her body. Naturally, the Doctor looked completely unaffected by the snowy climate.

For all she knew, he was. She'd noticed he had a cooler body temperature than she did. Maybe all Time Lords ran cooler than humans. Since the Doctor was the last of his kind, she would never know.

Martha turned her head to see him, ask where and when they were, but the Doctor was nowhere to be seen. She looked forward again, saw that he was already at least ten feet ahead.

_Figures,_ she thought, her eyes sliding past the spiky-haired Time Lord.

Then she saw the dire wolf, and she froze. "Doctor . . ."

"Relax," he said casually, without looking back. "It's not going to attack us."

_Yeah, right,_ Martha thought sarcastically, eyeing the large wolf warily. The Doctor may think he had the animal all figured out and while, without a doubt, he was an expert in several different fields, Martha didn't quite trust him this time. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to turn and run back to the TARDIS, to get _off_ this planet _right now_.

(And maybe get away from her designated driver, but she didn't want to dwell on that particular feeling/thought at the moment.)

"You're sure of that, are you?" she said out loud, breaking into a slow jog in order to catch up with the Doctor.

He shot her an irritated look. "_Yes,_ I'm _sure_," he snapped.

The wolf was eyeballing them, Martha noticed. Her hand reached out, found the Doctor's, and squeezed tightly.

He sucked in air through clenched teeth, turned on her. "What?"

"That wolf is eyeballing us." Maybe she sounded paranoid, but she didn't really care.

"Don't be ridiculous. What did you ever do to it?"

_Nothing,_ she wanted to say, but she wasn't sure if that was exactly true. Couldn't wolves smell fear? Did they attack because of it?

Had the dire wolf moved closer? She swore it had. And were its hackles raised? Oh, she hoped not. Wolves were not one of her favorite animals, and childhood stories featuring evil werewolves really weren't helping.

The wolf suddenly threw back its head and howled. Martha just knew it was summoning the rest of the pack.

She had faced Carrionites, Zygons, Judoon, Professor Lazarus, Daleks, a living sun, Plasmavores, vampires, Weeping Angels, and had had to deal with the Family of Blood more or less on her own. She was no stranger to danger. Yet when six more dire wolves appeared, her first instinct was to turn and run.

The wolves crept closer, and Martha's mind went blank. It was gone completely in out-of-control terror.

She turned and ran.

~oOo~

"Martha!" the Doctor yelled after her.

His companion didn't stop. He knew she was aiming for the TARDIS, but bolting like that was the quickest way to get herself killed. Dire wolves, the ancestor of _Canis lupus lupus_ (which in turn were the ancestors and cousins of _Canis lupus familiaris_), were attracted to movement when hunting and would pick out the weakest, oldest, or most frightened animal. In this case, that would be Martha.

If the wolves weren't going to attack before, they certainly were now

_Well, it_ would _solve some of my problems . . . No, better not. Her timeline . . . Better keep her alive for now._

He sighed through his nose, then turned and glared at the pack before pulling out the sonic screwdriver. The tip glowed blue, and the dire wolves shied away from the silent scream of ultrasonic frequencies, whining and yelping with pain.

Satisfied, the Doctor pocketed the screwdriver and strolled back to his timeship with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Martha was already in the console room, her breathing rhythm erratic.

He didn't care.

"You do realize," he said coolly, "that was the dumbest thing you could have done? It was like putting up a huge neon sign saying, 'Here I am! Come and eat me!' Were you_ trying_ to get yourself killed?"

"No!" Her dark eyes flashed fire that dimmed quickly. "I just— I don't like wolves, that's all."

The Doctor abruptly changed gears, shifting from angry and standoffish to concerned and caring friend. "Okay," he said, his expression softening. He stepped closer, pulled her in for a hug and fought off revulsion at her touch—she smelled wrong, felt wrong, wasn't _her_. "I didn't know. You never mentioned it."

"I never had to," she mumbled into his chest.

Suddenly uncomfortable, he pulled away. "Sorry." Avoiding eye contact, he busied himself with the controls. "We'll be in the Vortex soon. Fancy a trip back home?"

Martha blinked, shifted her weight. "Um, sure. It'll be good to see Tish and Leo, at least."

He nodded curtly. "Right, then. I'll let you know when we get there. Why don't you take ten?" He glanced up, saw her tentative smile. Then Martha turned down the corridor that led to the butterfly room (the last time he'd been in there was with Sam and Caroline back in his eighth body when he was hunting vampires in 1997 San Francisco).

She glanced back.

He didn't see it.

_You come on like a flame,  
__Then you turn a cold shoulder.  
__Fire and ice . . ._


	3. Bleed

**Notes: **Inspired by and based on "Bleed" by Evanescence.

**Summary: **When Martha agreed to letting the Doctor take her on as a full-time companion, she wasn't expecting to see anything like this. . . .

**Warnings: **Blood, death.

* * *

**Part Three**

**"Bleed"**

* * *

The night air felt warm on Martha Jones' skin as she walked down the London street searching for the Doctor. He'd taken her back home in order to go out to a big fancy social gathering with her sister Tish, her brother Leo, and some of their friends, but he'd slipped away soon after the introductions and nibbles and she hadn't seen him since. The party wasn't quite over, but some guests had started to trickle outside by the time she'd left.

A sudden noise coming from a nearby alley had Martha cautiously approaching in that direction. She poked her head around the corner carefully to see what was going on, then relaxed as she recognized the familiar lanky form of the Doctor. Martha stepped into the alleyway's entrance but stopped cold when she heard a pleading female voice.

Only then did she realize that the Doctor was angled so he couldn't see her, and that he had a young woman—blonde, maybe, it was hard for Martha to tell exactly—cornered, trapped between him and the brick wall.

Martha crept forward silently; then stopped dead in her tracks when her eyes caught the brief metallic gleam in the Doctor's hand. At first she thought it was the sonic screwdriver—but no, it was never that bright when light reflected off it. Another possibility—grim as it was—suddenly occurred to her.

_. . . No. He wouldn't. **He wouldn't**. . . ._

Dark red blood—it looked almost black in the dim light—trickled then flowed down the woman's neck, soaking her clothes before dripping and pooling onto the gritty asphalt.

Martha drew in a sharp, shocked breath. The Doctor's head whipped in her direction, eyes narrowed, and he stepped away from his prey. His victim crumpled gracelessly to the ground, her life force slowly seeping away in rivulets of red. He stepped toward his traveling companion; Martha's insides froze to ice and she turned away, her head whirling.

_I must be dreaming. . . ._

"Martha." He sounded so _calm_, so _normal_ . . . Like he hadn't just slit an innocent woman's throat and left her to die . . .

Oh, he really was alien . . .

Terrified of him, she stepped back, out of his reach.

_We all live and we all die, but that does not begin to justify you. . . ._

"Martha, wait." The Doctor held out a long-fingered hand, reached for her. "I can explain—"

She didn't wait for him to finish: she was already running in the opposite direction as fast as she could in heels.

Martha didn't look back to see if he was following.

~oOo~

Several blocks later, Martha finally slowed to a fast walk. Taking deep lungfuls of air to help slow her rapid heartbeat and to regulate her breathing, she finally took in her surroundings. To her surprise, the route she'd taken had led her to where the Doctor had parked his TARDIS. The police box shape of the timeship almost looked like it was glowing in the dark, though that may be her impression because the lettering on top actually was glowing. Somehow, the sight of the sturdy blue box calmed Martha down, reassured her that she would be okay—however terrified she might currently be of its owner.

She couldn't push the sight of that poor woman out of her head. . . .

Dammit, she was a doctor—well, almost. She should have _done_ something . . . But no, there was nothing she could have done.

"That woman was dead before she hit the ground."

Martha stiffened at the familiar voice behind her, shuddered when cool hands rested on her shoulders. Suddenly she wished she hadn't worn a strapless dress.

"It's not what it seems. Martha, it's not what you think." His voice wrapped around her, the words sweet and honeyed, his tone soft as velvet.

Words had always been his preferred weapon. And right now, none would come to her.

_No, I must be dreaming. It's only in my mind, not in real life. No, I must be dreaming . . ._

But how could she pretend that she didn't see the side of him he hid so carelessly?

Martha shook her head slightly, slipped out of his grasp and turned to face him. "I saw her bleed, Doctor. And you—you . . ." _You heard me breathe, and I froze inside myself and turned away._

Dark eyes bored into hers, and Martha found she couldn't look away. "Yes?" he said evenly.

She swallowed hard, briefly averted her gaze. "Are you going to kill me, too?"

"Do you want me to?"

Martha felt as if ice water had been dumped over her head. "No!"

She couldn't see his hands now, and the realization set her even more on edge. He was skilled at sleight-of-hand; she knew that. It would be so _easy_ for him to slip a knife between her ribs . . .

Stomach acid burned a hole through her insides, shot up into her throat. She had to tell someone, tell them what she knew he'd done . . .

There was no way he'd allow her to do that.

"Okay, then."

Had she heard him right? Martha blinked. "Sorry?"

"I'm not going to kill you." He eased forward; she stepped back.

She still couldn't see his hands. But standing this close to him, she could smell the iron tang of blood, the stench of death.

Her mum had been right about him all along.

"Why'd you kill her then?" Martha heard herself say. "What did she do to you?" And why, oh _why_, was she expecting a coherent answer from him—an answer that would give_ some_ reasoning behind what he'd done?

Something that might have been a smirk flickered on his lips; his expression darkened. Every nerve and muscle fiber in Martha's body was screaming at her to turn and run, but she ignored the signals and stayed put. Besides, he'd caught up to her easily when she'd run from him before, and bolting into the TARDIS was a bad idea too: He knew his ship better than she did, and if she ended up trapping herself . . .

"What makes you think I'm going to spill all my secrets to _you_?" There was a sneer embedded in the Doctor's voice. Vaguely, she realized his black suit and white shirt were splattered with dark red—a red that was slowly on its way to turning a rusty brown. "I don't kiss and tell, Martha."

Her heart leapt into her throat even as she swallowed down bile. "You said you would _explain_, that it wasn't what it seemed—that I didn't see what I thought I saw."

His jaw tightened. "I know what I said."

(He'd also said he wasn't going to kill her, but Martha didn't entirely trust him on that.)

_I fear you,_ she realized, _but spoken fears can come true._

Oh, she had to be dreaming. This _had to be_ a nightmare.

Except for the fact she couldn't wake up.

_It's only in my mind, not in real life. No, I must be dreaming. . . ._

"Let me guess," Martha said sarcastically," she was an alien in disguise."

"Well, actually . . . No."

Horror mingled with dread. She'd saved his life, had blindly put her faith and trust in him, but now . . . He'd told her about his planet, the Time War; had shown her so much of the universe; and Martha realized she still didn't know him, not really. Her eyes met his, glanced away. She said softly, "We all live and we all die, but that does not begin to justify you."

"I told you, it's not what it seems, not what you think."

"And you still won't give me a reason _why_!" Martha flashed back at him.

His hands were suddenly sliding up and down her bare arms, over her shoulders. She hadn't even seen them leave his pockets; that's how fast he could move, how skilled he was at sleight-of-hand.

"That's for me to know and for you"—that half-smile, half-smirk again—"not to find out." If he had his way, she never would.

Too late, Martha realized her mistake. As her world faded to black, she was aware of the fact he wore the scent of blood and death, of dark eyes burning out of a pale face.

_Not what it seems. Not what you think. I must be dreaming. Just in my mind. Not in real life. I must be dreaming. . . ._


	4. Haunted

**Notes: **Inspired by and based on Evanescence's "Haunted" (_Fallen _version). This whole chapter is pretty much Martha dealing with the events in "Bleed."

This series has Martha traveling with a darker version of the Tenth Doctor than portrayed in the show and in their New Series Adventures novels. As such, there are trigger warnings throughout.

**Warnings: **Dark Doctor. Discussion (such as it is) of homicide; mentions of rape. Abusive/toxic relationship.

* * *

**Part Four**

**"Haunted"**

* * *

Martha's eyes snapped open and she lurched upright out of reflex, gasping for breath. Her momentum had her rolling off of whatever she was lying on and sent her tumbling to the floor. Disoriented, she picked herself up and tried to take in her surroundings once the room stopped spinning. To her horror, she found she was back on the TARDIS (in the console room, maybe? No, it didn't look like it) and wearing the same clothes she'd worn to that party with Tish and Leo, the party where she'd seen the Doctor—

Martha closed her eyes, gave a quick shake of her head. _No. Don't think about that._

How long had she been out? Not long, she didn't think, but it was always hard to judge the passage of time in the TARDIS. The fact she'd been unconscious didn't help either.

Wait—where was the Doctor? He wouldn't have left her alone for long. At least, she hoped he wouldn't.

But then, she would have said he would never kill an innocent woman in cold blood.

Martha, suddenly sick with fear, cast her eyes around the room wildly. She didn't see him, and wondered with dread what he had planned for her.

_Long lost words whisper slowly to me.  
__Still can't find what keeps me here  
__When all this time I've been so hollow inside . . ._

Why was she still traveling with him when all he'd done was either treat her as a rebound or leave her to fend for herself? No, worse than a rebound. She had vague, hazy, half-remembered recollections but no solid memories . . .

. . . Except for the events of either a few short hours ago, or maybe it was the previous night by now.

Back to her original question. She knew why she'd agreed to travel with him in the first place—it had been a "thank-you for saving my life" sort of deal, and then they had kept taking detours on her way home. But now that he'd sort-of officially made her a passenger, his companion . . . Why was she still with him when, as her mother had put it, he was dangerous, that she wasn't safe, that death followed in his wake?

Martha knew the answer to that: Being with him made her feel alive in a way she hadn't, as if her life back on Earth had been hollow. That couldn't be the only reason, though, could it?

No, it wasn't. Maybe her unrequited feelings for him were part of the reason she stayed. Martha had never thought of herself as the kind of girl who would crush on and pursue a guy who wouldn't give her the time of day because he still had feelings for or was in love with someone else. She'd seen that happen with one of her friends, had promised herself she wouldn't put herself in that situation; yet here she was, mooning over a guy from another planet who didn't return her feelings and was pining after his ex-companion.

The soft tread of footsteps suddenly reached her ears; she thought she heard fabric rustling, wood creaking. Her mouth ran dry; sudden panic seized her. Without turning around, she knew who was behind her.

_I know you're still there watching me, wanting me. I can feel you pull me down._

She could feel his eyes on her, fought the urge to look at him.

"How are you feeling?" He sounded so normal, so concerned . . . so _genuine_ . . . It had to be an act.

Even so, sometimes it seemed like he had some sort of hold on her. His voice . . . the way he talked . . . He could convince her to do anything, could smoothly talk his way out of trouble, could even manipulate his enemies into taking their own lives.

He'd tried to do the same thing to her after she'd witnessed him . . . murder . . . an innocent human woman.

"I'm okay," Martha lied, pretending to be suddenly fascinated by the fabric of her dress.

Last night hadn't been a nightmare after all.

What did he have planned for her?

_Fearing you, loving you. I won't let you pull me down. . . ._

"I'm going to go change," she said suddenly, started to move past the Doctor with her eyes downcast. Her skin crawling, she forced herself to stay at a walk until she was out of the room and in one of the TARDIS's many twisting corridors.

Once she was out of his sight and felt like she was a safe distance away, she broke into a run.

-oOo-

The Doctor stayed behind for a few moments, watching Martha as she headed out at a fast walk, her body tense, and smiled slightly as he heard her footsteps break into a run.

Fine by him. The chase heightened his anticipation, made the reward so much sweeter.

He followed her silently, keeping his stride long and leisurely.

It was _his_ ship, after all, and he would catch up sooner or later.

_Hunting you, I can smell you—alive.  
__Your heart pounding in my head._

As he tracked down his companion, a verse from a song played in his head; absent-mindedly, he hummed a few bars, his fingers tapping out the guitar rhythm on his trousers' leg.

He could hear her footsteps pounding against the floor as she ran blindly down the corridor, could hear her harsh breathing. Occasionally his olfactory senses caught a whiff of her scent, now rank with anxiety, dread, and fear.

It smelled delicious.

The Doctor turned a corner, saw her slamming her fists against a locked door—a dead end. He could hear her heart pounding frantically inside his head, and his own heartbeats quickened in anticipation.

"No! Open! Let me out!" Martha screamed at the door, her back to him.

The Doctor, hands in his pockets, stepped forward. "Oh, she's not going to do that," he drawled.

Martha froze, slowly turned to look at him; something deep within stirred at the raw fear in her eyes. He wanted to see more of it, to see it turn to horror as he pressed himself close and asked her, "Isn't this what you want from me?"

"Get it over with then." Her voice brought him back, out of his thoughts, and his brow furrowed in confusion for a few moments.

"What are you waiting for?!" Martha snapped at him.

Her meaning hit him, and he couldn't stop the psychotic smirk from forming. "Oh, like I told you, I'm not going to kill you, Martha. Why would I?" He shrugged. "I've been having so much fun."

"_Murdering_ an _innocent woman_ is _fun_ to you?" she asked incredulously, her expression now one of revulsion.

His smirk slipped, almost faded. Something flickered in his eyes for a brief second, then was gone. "Depends. Daleks, Cybermen, Racnoss, werewolves, vamps, other Time Lords . . ."

"But you had a _reason_! Not with . . . with her . . ."

"You didn't seem to have a problem with me killing Lazarus."

"He was trying to kill us!"

"He was human," the Doctor reminded her.

"So was she!" Martha spat back at him.

"And I'm not," he retorted calmly.

A laugh escaped her, half-wild and humorless. "I know."

"Do you? Really? Because sometimes I think you need reminding." His eyes hardened, dilated. Time Lord pupils didn't dilate like a humans: they narrowed to slits, like a cat's or a snake's. It only made the gorgeous dark-brown of his irises stand out even more. He leaned in close, too close, invading her personal space.

This body had a tendency to do that, he'd noticed, and with Rose more so than anyone else.

(He wanted her back, _needed_ her back even though he knew it was impossible. This incarnation had almost been custom-made for her—if either of them knew what she'd been looking for—and needed her like he needed air.)

(How was it that he, the last of an ancient and powerful race, could be so turned around and willing to break all of the Laws of Time for a mere human girl—even one who had swallowed the whole of eternity for him?)

Martha's breathing hitched, started to go ragged. The neurotransmitter norepinephrine was running through her sympathetic nervous system, preparing her for fight-or-flight. Her heart rate increased; her pupils, blood vessels to the heart and skeletal muscles, and trachea and bronchi dilated; and her digestion and salivation would have decreased as well—it was how the human body prepared to handle stress. She was a mess of adrenaline, glucose, norepinephrine, and all sorts of sudoriferous glands. But underneath all that . . . Discreetly, he breathed in through his nose, trying to sort out what he was smelling. _Ah, yes. Typical._ Underneath the cocktail of hormones brought on by her sympathetic nervous system was fear . . . and arousal.

"What is it you want from me, Martha?" His voice was low, quiet; his mouth was near the shell of her left ear. "For me to fuck you? Did you think all this"—he drew back, gestured at his ship with a wide sweep of his arm—"was some sort of _date_?" (Never mind the fact he'd already brought her to orgasm using just his fingers and mouth without her consent; never mind the fact she'd referred to their adventures as dates multiple times; never mind the fact he'd buried or altered some of her memories already.)

"NO!" Her response was quick, almost too quick, and her hands were at shoulder level, palms out, as if to shove him away. Then she turned to the side, away from him. "I want to know why you killed her."

"And I told you: that's not happening."

"She was blonde, wasn't she?"

For once, Martha had caught him off guard. He frowned. "Who?"

"Your . . . victim. And . . . and Rose."

"Yes." He didn't elaborate further. _Let her draw her own conclusions._

"So, what, you killed her because she turned out not to be your long-lost girlfriend?"

His dilated eyes now looked almost black with sudden anger. He stilled, went absolutely quiet. Martha, he noticed, had gone pale. "Is that what you think?"

"I— I don't . . . I don't know." She averted her eyes for a long moment then looked into his own. "Did you use her before you killed her?"

"No. She seduced me." The Doctor made sure his voice was carefully controlled, flat and almost clipped. The lie fell easily—almost too easily—from his lips. But then, he'd had centuries of practice. His seventh self in particular had been rather skilled at it—good enough to trick Davros into using the Hand of Omega to destroy Skaro. His ninth body had also lied to Rose about Gwyenth—except that hadn't exactly been a lie, not really. In a way the servant girl had been dead from the moment she'd stepped into that arch. Then there was that time he'd claimed to be half human on his mother's side . . .

Hhmm. He never had found out what happened to the Faction Paradox after the Last Great Time War. Not that it mattered.

"And you _let_ her? Before you figured out she wasn't your _precious Rose_?" Martha's tone had started out as a mixture of incredulity and disgust before becoming outright bitter.

His eyes flashed fire with fury before freezing to ice. "Don't go there. Don't even_ think_ you can mention her name." He was fully aware he was in tranquil fury mode, knew just what he was capable of when he was like this. So did Martha: She'd seen what he'd done to the Carrionites, Richard Lazarus, the Daleks, the Zygons, the Clade, and he'd told her what he'd done to the Family. _I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream_ indeed. That wasn't even counting all the actions of his past incarnations.

Martha's eyes met his, still scared but now with a hint of defiance. "Or what? What are you going to do to me? Throw me out into space?" Another possibility occurred to her, given the state of her sleeveless, strapless dress and their close proximity. "Or . . ." She swallowed hard, had a sudden sense of déjà vu.

His dark eyes glittered with amusement. "Rape you?" he finished for her.

All Martha could manage was a weak nod, her mouth suddenly as dry as a desert.

"Oh, I've already done that," he said softly.

Her stomach dropped out from under her, and her heart shot up into her throat. "What?" It came out as a hoarse croak.

The Doctor said nothing, just regarded her with a slight smirk and laughing eyes.

Suddenly Martha wanted to run, to run from him and never look back. There was no way she could help him—save him—no way she could make him love her. She knew that now. And he was just standing there staring, watching her as her world divided, spun on its axis, failed to make any sense . . .

Her mum had been right about him all along. She'd seen that for herself the previous night, but she had refused to believe it. And now . . . and now . . . he could kill her, or leave her on another planet in another time, and her family and friends would have no idea what had happened to her. There would be no chance of ever finding her body. Or worse, he could erase her from existence.

She'd shoved past him and was running, running . . .

And still she could feel his eyes on her.

_Watching me, wanting me,_ Martha heard in her head, the lyrics to a song she'd heard on the radio back in 2003. _I can feel you pull me down. Saving me, raping me, watching me. . . ._

She skidded to a halt outside her room, tried the door . . . and found it was locked. _No!_ Trying to force down her fear, Martha whirled around, eyes searching frantically—for what, she wasn't quite sure.

One lone gangly figure stepped through the sudden darkness, and she bit back a scream. _Not again, not again, not again . . ._

Cold, long-fingered hands came to rest on her temples. Then he was_ inside her mind_ and . . .

Nothing.

As her vision faded to black once more, the last thing she was aware of was dark eyes, dark hair, pale skin drawn taut over an alien skull.

And even as she feared him, she couldn't help loving him.

_Watching me, wanting me.  
__I can feel you pull me down.  
__Fearing you, loving you.  
__I won't let you pull me down!_


End file.
